Stories · from · the · Stone · Caravan

Mama Swallow is fledging her brood in my living room. They fly in circles under the beams, trying to aim for the open window - then one by one disappear. All is silent for twenty minutes, and then with a bucketful of adolescent swallow chatter they are back, ready to start all over again.

I will have to find a way of dissuading Mama next year - swallows are lovely, but swallow lime is very caustic, and I have shovel loads of it on the staircase, lifting the paint. I like to leave the windows open when the cottage is unoccupied, to improve air flow and reduce damp. I have bars to prevent human intruders, but nothing to stop swallows. Fruit netting perhaps? Or folding trellis? I could wedge expanding trellis in the gap between window and sill...

It's hard to know where to start with the cleaning in the knowledge that there is building work taking place (fingers crossed) in the very near future - so more dust and grime and disruption to come.

But I am having great success removing the black mould from the casein lime paint - I paint it with bleach, which kills the mould and removed the stain, wash with water - et voilà - white walls again.

The kitchen-scullery will soon be cleaner than it ever was before - it is the only part of the cottage which has its original stone flag floor, and I am determined to get down on my hands and (dammit!) knees and scrub them bright clean.
Ah - the weasel has left some mice living! One just peered under the front door at me (I'm sitting on the doorstep enjoying the open air). I wonder how many generations have passed since I left wool under the Christmas tree for mouse nests?

I can't make the cottage homely right now - so the solution is probably to invest in a sleeping bag and a primus stove, and camp in the single upper room until the building work is done.

I made Rillettes last night; 1lb pork shoulder, 1lb pork belly, sliced and simmered overnight in the back of the aga, with cloves, bay leaves, thyme, until almost melted away, then shredded, seasoned (heavily) with salt, pepper and nutmeg and packed in pots, under a cap of clean white fat.
Not for the faint of heart, or those not willing to spend a week on celery to work off the extra calories - but - but -
in a few days time - pure pink poetry, sliced and spread on crusty bread with tiny pickled cornichons and a glass of cider....